


The Exorcism of Anthony J Crowley

by Melime



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Canon - Good Omens (Book & TV Combination), Deception, Demons, Derogatory Language, Exorcisms, Explicit Language, First Kiss, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Really Character Death, Not What It Looks Like, Post-Canon, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22523212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melime/pseuds/Melime
Summary: Father Francis is a small town priest with strange gaps in his memory and a dislike of his given name, Azira Z. Fell. His simple life is complicated when a mysterious man comes to town, seeking his help. Each time they meet, more of Crowley’s troubled past is revealed, including his unfulfilled love story with the man he calls only as ‘angel’ and the manifestations of his guilt over angel’s death that make Francis fear for his safety. As Crowley’s symptoms worsen, Francis grows more desperate to save him, despite not believing his concerns until being confronted with irrefutable proof for the demonic. Moved by the strange connection he feels to Crowley, he decides to perform an exorcism. Questioning his past, his feelings, his intentions, and his own perception of reality, Francis has little time to save them from the demon Crawly, but both of their lives could be lost in the process, even though things may not be what they seem.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	The Exorcism of Anthony J Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> First, I look like to thank bees-are-awesome for the [amazing art](https://bees0are0awesome.tumblr.com/post/190589250265/art-for-the-good-omens-bb-fic-the-exorcism-of), be sure to check that out. Also, to my beta and cheerleader Alfer, who convinced me to follow this idea in the first place.
> 
> Second, this is a story that deals with some heavy subjects, so please mind the tags, or check the warning at the end notes for more details (with spoilers, including the end).

There were many things to be said about perception.

Perception was, after all, the only way that any creature had of interacting with the world. Which meant to say, reality was nothing more than a perception deemed valid and correct.

This was mostly true for humans, as they were clever little creatures with too much time on their hands to think about thoughts they shouldn’t be thinking1.

This was also true for the occult and ethereal beings who lived in other planes of existence, and sometimes on Earth. In fact, it could be more true for them, as used as they were with reality obeying their commands.

It would be important to keep note of that, since reality was a form of perception in some convoluted way, what is perceived to have happened with enough belief could be said to have been reality, even if it was not, on the strictest of terms, what had actually happened.

And perception, oddly enough, was Heaven’s favorite weapon against unruly angels.

\---

Many people, meeting Father Francis for the first time, formed three impressions: that he was English, that he was intelligent, and that he was one of those repressed gays that turned to the colar to try to hide their true nature. Two of these were wrong; he didn’t know for sure where he was born, only that the orphanage’s records listed him as abandoned in the adjacent church, which was located in England, and clergy was his calling not his hiding place, so he felt he had little use for speculations on his own sexuality, despite feeling no need to hide where his inclinations would lie if not for his commitment to God. But he was intelligent. And it was a scholarly intelligence which, while not being particularly higher than other forms of intelligence, was much more focused and had the advantage of him having had years to study.

Father Francis was, generally speaking, well regarded in his community.

That wasn’t to say he was a particularly good priest, or even that he always behaved in a way that was appropriate.

In fact, he would sometimes lose his temper and get a touch snappy. And he was known to be quite judgemental about some choice topics, especially those around classic theology.

He also happened to consume a good portion of whatever bake sale they had, regardless of what they were supposed to gather funds for, and of course he wouldn’t pay for anything, with his vote of poverty and all. Oh, he would never ask to take anything, but he would look longingly at a particularly lovely dessert until the grandma who made it would have her instincts kick in and decided it was her job to keep him well fed.

Not to mention quite a few parishioners suspected he had done something to the threatening group of men in expensive suits that for some reason thought that a priest had the authority to sell the church he worked at, because they were never seen again.

But he was kind, when he needed to be. He was soft, and always knew when his parishioners needed a gentle talk.

And he also abhorred each and every person who used the scriptures to justify their own prejudices. Soon enough, most LGBT catholics south of London were part of his congregation, even if quite a few of them lived in neighboring towns and only came to his small village on Sundays.

On the other hand, quite a few self-righteous bigots started to attend mass themselves on different towns, that had ‘proper’ priests, which in this case meant willing to validate prejudices.

It was a win-win, as far as Father Francis was concerned.

He made every effort to get rid of nasty people when he first started there, many years ago2.

All in all, he lead a very quiet, very peaceful life. He just had a nagging feeling that something was missing from it. But it was just a meaningless feeling, because nothing could be missing. He had God, what else could he need?

\---

It was a nice and warm afternoon, and he still had a few hours before the next mass. It was a perfect moment to take a good book and go out in the garden to read for a bit without being disturbed3.

He had decided to do just that when he saw the strange man on the sidewalk, walking back and forth as if conflicted over deciding to go in the church yard or not. He was dressed like a rich businessman, or maybe a rich lawyer, expensive black suit, snake skin boots, and an expensive looking watch. He wore shades, even though the day was cloudy. He was long and lean. Everything about him screamed discomfort.

Nothing at all like most people who attended his church, but he wasn’t one to turn his back to people without a good reason. So he put aside his book and went to the front yard, trying his best to smile and look friendly.

“Hello, dear boy, what brings you here on this blessed day?” Alright, he had overdone it a bit. Maybe a touch less friendly.

The man nearly jumped out of his skin, and looked around as if to confirm Francis was talking to him. “Me? I, uh, I… forget it, this was a mistake,” he said, turning to leave.

“Please, wait!” he said, signaling for him but not touching him. “I didn’t mean to push you. If you need more time then feel free to stay here for as long as you wish. The church is a sanctuary, it is open to all, and you should always feel free to stay for as long as you wish.”

He hesitated. “It’s just, I thought maybe you could help me, but now I’m not so sure anymore.”

Francis gave his best soft smile. “Why don’t you tell me about what’s troubling you?”

“What good would it do? You can’t help me. No one can.”

“Well, you can’t know that until you’ve tried it, can you?”

He sighed, looking impossibly tired, and old far beyond his years. “I suppose you’re right. But I tried everything, and nothing worked so far.”

“Do you want to come inside? I could make some tea.” He tried to make his counseling seem as domestic as possible, it helped dissipate part of the more unfounded catholic guilt.

He shook his head. “I haven’t step food inside a church in decades, I don’t think I’m willing to try that now. Last time it felt like everything wanted to kill me.”

He could be exaggerating, but if not, then he would have to have turned his back to church while still very young, probably a teenager, and at most a young adult. This could be a chance to bring him back to the flock, but Francis didn’t like to be pushy about the religious thing. Even though that was odd for a priest4.

“We have a lovely garden out the back, there’s a passway on the side here. We could sit there. It’s not even technically holy ground, it was donated some years ago and we built the garden, but I never got around to performing all the rites.”

He had been meaning to, but he had so much to do, always. Organizing the bake sales, reading his books… that was pretty much it.

“Alright, lead the way then,” the man said after a long pause.

Francis nodded. He noticed how uncomfortable his companion seemed to be, as if even being there hurt him, but he relaxed as they arrived at the garden.

“Take a seat, please,” Francis said, sitting at a bench and tapping the place next to him.

The man tossed himself at the bench, slouching in a way that had to be uncomfortable, and made Francis doubt the shape of his spine.

“Whenever you are ready, dear boy. I do have a couple hours free.”

He blushed and looked to the opposite side, or at least seemed to. It was hard to tell with the shades.

“What would you say if I told you that strange things have been happening to me?” he said, still not looking at him.

“That would depend on what strange things you are talking about. Tel mel, is there anything I can call you? You don’t have to tell me your name if you don’t want to, but having something would make this conversation easier.”

“Crowley. Anthony Crowley, but I mostly go by Crowley. Should I just call you Father?” he said, a mocking tone in the last part.

Francis chose to ignore the mockery. He was supposed to advise people, especially when they needed it the most. Besides, one couldn’t be a priest for any extended time without dealing with some mockery, mostly from teenagers that wanted nothing to do with the church.

“I’m Father Francis, you can call me as you wish.”

“Francis? Like the saint? Is that a requirement of priesthood or something? I thought that was only for Popes.”

“I was baptized Azira Z. Fell, but people had trouble with my name in seminary. I decided to take Francis as a name to be more approachable.”

“Z? What name can you possibly have that starts with a Z? Zachariah?”

Crowley sounded genuinely amused. Which Francis supposed was better than mocking or troubled.

“Zacker. I was raised in a catholic orphanage, they ran out of names rather quickly, then started pulling biblical names out of bowl. I knew a boy named Zurishaddai.”

Crowley snorted. “Alright, that would have been much worse.”

At least he seemed more relaxed now.

“So tell me, Crowley, what strange things have been happening to you?”

He tensed. “Oh, I don’t know how to explain.”

“Try me.”

He sighed, and took so long Francis assumed he wouldn’t say anything. “It’s a bunch of little things.”

“Such as?”

“I’m having trouble sleeping.”

Well, that he could deal with. It was a common enough problem. Sometimes guilt, sometimes anxiety, sometimes a snoring spouse or a crying baby. And if it were none of these things, he could always refer to a doctor.

“Do you remember when did it start?”

Crowley seemed like he was about to say something, but then he shook his head. “I… I can’t.”

“You can’t remember or you can’t tell me?” Francis said, trying not to sound judgmental.

“I think I should go.”

“I won’t force you to stay, but I would like the opportunity to help you.”

Crowley tossed his head back to stare at the clouds, and stayed like this for a couple of minutes. Francis didn’t pressure him to speak.

Finally, while still staring at the sky, he said, “I lost a dear friend of mine. My best friend, actually.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Were they sick?”

“He was murdered, but I would rather not say more about that. It’s… it’s complicated.”

“I understand. A traumatic event can often cause trouble sleeping.”

Crowley shook his head, and stared down at his shoes. “That’s not the problem. I know he went to Heaven, but the only place I’m going to is Hell.”

Ah, right to the heart of the issue rather quickly. He was starting to think recommending a therapist would be better, but this was definitely the case for spiritual counseling. Possibly also a therapist, but a priest was the right place to start.

He placed a hand on Crowley’s, and Crowley jumped at the contact, but didn’t pull his hand away. “You’re wrong, dear boy. No person is so damned that they cannot repent and find salvation. If it’s absolution that you seek, then I can help you on this path.”

Crowley laughed sadly. “Not me, I’m unforgivable, I’m pretty sure of that.”

“What makes you so special that only you can’t find forgiveness?”

Crowley pulled his hand away and stood up. “This was a mistake, I shouldn’t have come here.”

And before Francis could say anything, he was gone.

“Go in peace,” he said, even though he knew Crowley couldn’t hear him.

He would pray so that Crowley could find what he was looking for, he seemed like a very troubled young man.

\---

Two days later, Francis was still thinking about Crowley. It wasn’t often that he found a case he couldn’t help with, and Crowley seemed to need a lot of help. Perhaps more than any one person could give him.

Still, as much as he was thinking about Crowley, he was surprised to find him sitting on the same bench when Francis went to water the flowers.

“I… the gate was open. I hope you don’t mind,” he said, embarrassed.

Francis noticed that he was dressed mostly the same way, except in a different but still black suit. Not only that, but he looked as if he hadn’t slept since their last conversation.

“That’s quite alright, dear boy. The church is always open to those who need it,” he said, going to sit next to Crowley.

“The church isn’t really for me, but I like your garden,” he said, moving a finger across a particularly verdant leaf.

“The church is for everyone, same as the light of God.” It was a bit more overt than he was used to, but he wanted to show Crowley the door was still open for him to come back.

“Oh, not for me. Me and God aren’t on speaking terms.”

“Even if you renounce God, he still believes in you.”

Crowley shook his head, laughing like he knew something Francis didn’t. “I’m pretty sure that’s not true. But I didn’t come here to talk about God. Or Heaven or Hell. Can you do that? Can you talk like a normal person instead of parroting around church speak?”

Francis would have taken offense at that, but he reminded himself it was his responsibility to help in any way he could.

“Very well, what do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know.”

The sat in silence for a while. After it became clear Crowley wouldn’t speak on his own, he decided to reach out.

“Do you want to tell me about your friend?”

“I don’t know how, I spent too long not being able to talk about him. Like he was a dirty little secret, and he wasn’t.”

“Why couldn’t you talk about him?”

“His family didn’t approve. And neither did mine, to be honest.”

Francis studied his face. He had the impression that this wasn’t a friend that they were talking about, but didn’t know how to convey to Crowley he wouldn’t be judged for it. If Francis was wrong or Crowley wasn’t ready, he could get scared off.

“Are you close with your family?”

Crowley laughed. “Not at all. If I could, I would never see them again, but they keep coming after me. My… my friend used to say that if they saw us together, they would kill me. And he was right, but...” his voice cracked, “he never stopped to think about how it was the same with his lot.”

“Was his family involved in his death?”

Crowley frowned, as if he was thinking of how to organize his own thoughts. “His brothers killed him because of me.”

By the way he said it, Francis wouldn’t doubt that he had never voiced this thought aloud before. Francis had to proceed with extreme caution or he might end up traumatizing Crowley further.

“That’s horrible, I’m so sorry. But you shouldn’t blame yourself.”

“Why not? If he hadn’t met me, he would have been fine. I was the one who corrupted him, who… tempted him.”

This was worse than Francis first thought. To see that on this day and age something like this could still happen, it was unbelievable. Not only was a horrible crime committed, but the wrong person blamed himself for it.

He reached out and took both of Crowley’s hands between his.

“Listen to me, Anthony. This is not your fault, none of this is your fault.”

“Of course it is, I… loved him.”

There it was, the admission Francis was expecting, and in the worst possible way. He shouldn’t hate, but he hated every single person that made Crowley believe that his love was the cause of a murder.

Francis dealt with people who were thrown out of the house or beaten by their parents, even people who had others try and change their sexuality, but never something so serious.

“Love is not a sin.”

“It is, when you love the wrong sort. And I think he loved me, it doesn’t get any wronger than that.”

By his voice, Francis figured he was starting to cry, but the shades still kept his eyes hidden enough.

“If you loved him and he loved you, then that’s a beautiful thing, because love is what brings us closest to God. His brothers’ hatred was in their hearts, but yours is pure.”

“Are you trying to absolve me? I told you before, this is not the road for me. I’m unforgivable.”

Francis felt ashamed, ashamed that his religion had been used in such horrific way against a good man. And worse still knowing those weren’t outliners.

“I can’t absolve you, because what you did wasn't a sin.”

Crowley pulled his hands back and stood up. “You don’t know anything. I asked him to turn his back to God and his family. I asked him to run away with me, leave everything behind and run away with me. I was the one who crossed the line. If I hadn’t done that, then he would still be here.”

And with that he left, before Francis could say another word.

Francis just hoped he would be back, and that next time Francis could actually do something to help him, instead of letting him slip through his fingers.

\----

It took another week for Crowley to show up, and when he did, it was outside the church yard, leaning on the wall and taking a smoke. Most people would be scandalized, but he didn’t seem to mind at all.

Francis wondered what kind of upbringing he had. It took a high level of fundamentalism to keep a presumably gay man so convinced that he was sinning decades after abandoning church, and he also had a certain flipancy so typical of those hurt by a religious family.

“Crowley? I was afraid I wasn’t going to see you again. Do you want to go to the garden?”

Crowley didn’t turn to look at him. “I didn’t plan on telling you about.... Angel, I called him Angel. I wasn’t going to talk about that, I haven’t talked to anyone about his death.”

“Then maybe that’s the problem, dear boy. You shouldn’t suffer in silence. I can offer you my advice on that, but I also think you should see a therapist. I know a few who specialize in internalized… I mean to say, on people who have similar guilt over love.”

Some people could get defensive over internalized homophobia, and he wanted to avoid that there. Especially since it seemed to be a very severe case. Besides, despite confessing his love, there was a chance Crowley still wasn’t ready to be confronted about his sexuality.

“A therapist would think I’ve lost my mind. Trouble sleeping isn’t my only problem.”

Francis knew fine well that this wasn’t his only problem. In fact, trouble sleeping was the least of his problems, and likely nothing more than a reflection of his other issues.

“Is there anything else you would like to tell me? Perhaps I could offer you some advice.”

“I’m afraid you’ll think that of me too.”

He walked around the wall to stand next to Crowley.

“I promise I won’t judge you. We can call it a confession if you would like, then I would be forbidden to tell anyone about it.”

“A confession is for believers.”

“You would be surprised. I can’t tell you what I’ve heard, but it’s an open secret that many people go to church for the community, despite losing faith.”

“Faith, funny you should mention that.”

“Why is that?”

“You believe in God, does that mean you believe in the devil?”

Francis sighed. It was a complicated question, with no easy answer. “I believe people are capable of a lot of evil all by themselves.”

“When I sleep, I hear a voice calling my name, asking me to let him in. I can’t see who is talking to me, but in my dreams I know it’s the devil. And yes, I know how that sounds.”

Every single person, he wanted to track down every single person who traumatized this poor man like this, and make them regret their sins. Something deep inside of him called him to action like an avenging angel, so unlike the mild-mannered priest that he was.

“Have you considered that maybe this is a manifestation of your guilt?”

Crowley shook his head. “It feels so real. I’m afraid of falling asleep, because I know he’ll be there.”

“I know it does, but it isn’t real. A dream can’t hurt you. Besides emotionally, that is.”

“Yes it can.” Crowley finally turned to him. “Yesterday he said he would keep on punishing me until I let him in, when I woke up I vomited a piece of glass.”

This was more serious than he thought. “If you’re hurting yourself…”

“I’m not, I swear. I didn’t swallow the glass, but I still vomited it. I’m afraid the devil is real and he’s stalking my dreams. And the way you’re looking at me is the reason I didn’t want to tell you, I told you, you can’t help me.”

Francis didn’t believe him, but he didn’t want to make Crowley run away again. At any rate, psychological afflictions of a religious nature could often be helped by spiritual comforts, even if only in preparation for proper psychiatric help5.

“I’m sorry, I promised I wouldn’t judge you. So if that is the case, then perhaps praying will help you. I can pray with you.”

Crowley shook his head. “I used to pray. Even after I lost my faith, even if I was sure God wasn’t listening.”

“What made you stop?”

“After I lost Angel, I kept praying that God would either give him back to me, or destroy me too. But I’m still here and he isn’t. And don’t give me any of that bullshit about mysterious ways, I’m tired of believing in an ineffable plan that demands everything and gives nothing in return. I’m done being the pawn of a cruel God.”

“If there is a fly whose life cycle happens inside the eyes of children, then there is no God6?” Francis asked.

“More like, then God is a bastard. I’m not an atheist, you know? I know God exists, I’m just not sure if she’s still paying attention.”

He prayed after losing his faith, but was about as anti-God as someone could get, and still kept the notion that same sex love was a sin. Francis wanted to know more about what made him this way.

“But the devil is?”

Crowley shrugged. “Or a demon. I’m not saying there are little imps running around pocking people, but maybe something like an aura of evil, disturbing people’s minds. I don’t know, I don’t know how to explain.”

“Grief can disturb people’s minds just as surely as any demon, I would assume.”

“So what, I’m imagining things?”

“Not necessarily, but reality is always filtered through our perceptions, so perhaps it’s your interpretation of events that needs work.”

Crowley took a final puff of his cigarette and tossed it right at the church yard. “And what makes you think that your perceptions are the right ones?” he asked as he left, without waiting for an answer.

Francis watched him go until he disappeared from view.

Everything about this situation was so entirely different from what Francis dealt on a daily basis, he was out of his depth.

He had to do something to help Crowley, it was his duty, but he didn’t know how to help. Losing his faith, a murdered lover, internalized homophobia mingled with religion, a violent family, all of those alone would be difficult enough to deal with, but together they were too much.

\---

Francis couldn’t stop thinking about Crowley. He was exactly the kind of person that Francis always wanted to help, but he feared that any action would push him way.

He asked around, even though he probably shouldn’t, but no one in town knew him. It made sense. Despite telling him his name, Crowley was evasive, and seeking counseling in another town was a good way to ensure his privacy, and also that he wouldn’t just run into Francis without being ready to face him.

Of course, that also meant there was very little that Francis could do except pray that Crowley would seek his help again.

What he didn’t expect was that Crowley _would_ run into him, when Francis was out buying some supplies for his garden.

Francis was just walking back, stumbling a bit with the heavy bags, when he saw Crowley, leaning against a beautiful antique car. As Francis hadn’t seen a car the other times, he wondered if Crowley parked it away from the church.

“You weren’t at the church,” Crowley said accusatory, without looking at him.

Usually, when people talked to him like this, he would get annoyed and declare that he wasn’t tethered to the church, and could leave when he bloody well pleased. But since Crowley was going through so much, he would give him a pass. He was giving Crowley a lot of passes, but he might as well be the only person who was doing that.

“I don’t have anyone to help me with supplies, so I have to run errands all by myself.”

Crowley straightened himself and opened the passenger door. “Do you want a ride? Those seem heavy.”

Francis smiled at him. “Oh, thank you, my dear boy. I was afraid I would fall over,” he said, then started placing the bags on the back seat.

“We wouldn’t want you to _fall_ ,” Crowley said with a strange emphasis, moving around to get to the driver’s side.

“I didn’t know that you had a car,” Francis said when they were both sitting, because he didn’t know what to say in this situation.

“Of course you knew, you asked around town and found out I’m not from here, so you had to know I had a car to come. I couldn’t take the train and still come and go as I please,” Crowley said, starting the car and moving to the road.

Francis blushed slightly. “I wanted to know where I could find you because I was worried.”

Crowley waved his hand dismissively. “I imagined you would. I did give you my full name.”

“So you wanted to be found?”

“Not necessarily. I’m living in London, by the way. I wasn’t born there, but lived there long enough for it to be home. You could have just asked me.”

“I didn’t want to push you.”

Crowley chuckled. “You’re good at that, aren’t you? Shepherding conflicted souls and all of that bullshit.”

A bit offensive, but without malice.

“It’s my vocation, my calling.”

“Helping people? Or serving God?”

“Both are the same thing. By helping our neighbors we serve God.”

“Not always, God does say a bunch of people should be put to death. Present company included.”

Francis shook his head. “The Bible was written by people, and translated and mistranslated more times than we can count. We have to take the words with a grain of salt. I choose to believe that my God is a God of love, that doesn’t just hate his children for the way he made them.”

“Oh, then my God didn’t get the memo, because last I checked, judging her children was God’s whole thing. That is, aside from being completely absent whenever it mattered.”

“Do you believe God is punishing you?”

“I’m not sure God’s still paying attention, but I was punished before enough for a lifetime. I should have learnt my lesson, but I kept wanting what I couldn’t have. That was my mistake from the beginning, I wanted too much. First answers, then love. God wouldn’t let that slide.”

“You can’t know what God...” Francis said, but was startled as Crowley parked too quickly, carelessly climbing the sidewalk.

“We’re here, ride over, hop out,” Crowley said dryly.

“Crowley…”

Crowley shook his head. “I told you, I don’t care about God, let alone talking about God. I offered you a ride, I got you to the church, get out.”

“But you wanted help…”

“And you can’t help me. Out.”

Francis wanted to insist, but he could see that Crowley was hurt, so he decided to respect his wishes. He couldn’t force someone to accept help, all he could do was keep offering it.

\---

Francis was sure he wasn’t going to see Crowley after that, and that it was all his fault.

Every time that Crowley stormed off angrily, Francis wondered what he could have done differently.

Perhaps he should avoid taking such a religious approach for now. It was obvious Crowley had a serious problem with organized religion, and conflicting feelings in regards to his own faith. It was easy for Francis to say that God didn’t have prejudices, but Crowley lost his lover to a homophobic murder committed by religious family.

A couple days after Crowley gave him a ride, Francis saw him sitting alone in his car, grabbing the wheel despite the car being parked in front of the church, looking as if he hadn’t slept since they last saw each other. Francis wondered how often that happened.

“Crowley?” Francis said, tapping at the window.

Crowley nearly jumped out of his seat.

“I can’t take this anymore.”

Crowley unlocked the door, and Francis got in the passenger’s seat without any further prompting.

“What happened, dear boy?”

“I can’t sleep, I can’t work, I can’t do anything. I need this to stop.”

“The nightmares?”

“I know you don’t believe me, I know you don’t think I’m being target by a demon or something, but I don’t know who to ask. Could you do something to protect me? As a priest? Just in case this is real, just in case this isn’t all in my head.”

Francis wasn’t one to feed into delusions, but he also couldn’t deny comfort, and in Crowley’s case, perhaps believing that religion could help him instead of harm him could steer him towards accepting other kinds of help.

The damage pseudo-religious bigots did to him, Francis was determined to undo, but Crowley would probably still need therapy.

“I could pray for you, if you think that will help. Or we could pray together, which would be better.”

Crowley shook his head. “I was thinking something stronger. Could you bless my flat or something? Cast out any demonic presence that may be there?”

“I told you…”

“I know, I know, you think I’ve lost it, need to go to a hospital, and there is no such thing as demons. Still, it would… it would help me. If this is really all in my head, I need to know for sure.”

He sounded like someone who was dismissed far too many times, and not just because of this.

“I don’t think you’ve lost your mind, if that’s what’s troubling you. I think you were hurt, deeply hurt, in ways that I can’t begin to understand, and you’re trying to find answers. If this is what you need to find them, then I’ll do what you ask. With one condition.”

“What is it?”

“If I can show you that there’s no demon, you’ll consider calling a friend of mine.”

“A psychiatrist, you mean?”

“Yes, but also someone who can help. You’re not alone, but may need a different kind of help that what I can provide.”

“And you say I haven’t lost my mind. Alright, go get your things, I’ll drive you.”

Francis nodded, and went back to the church. Nowadays he didn’t do many blessings, but it wasn’t the kind of thing one could forget.

As he went back to the car, it occurred to him that perhaps driving with a deeply troubled young man wasn’t the best course of action, but he couldn’t imagine Crowley would hurt him. Something made him trust Crowley, even though he couldn’t quite pinpoint what.

“Ready to go,” he said as he entered the car again, carrying a small bag.

Still, Crowley didn’t start the car.

“After everything you heard about me, why do you still trust me enough to get in the car with me?”

Granted, it was the sort of thing an American serial killer might say to his victims, but it still didn’t make him trust Crowley less.

“Because I firmly believe you are a good person who was convinced you’re bad. I don’t have to fear you.”

“Alright, but you still haven’t seen me drive on the road. I went easy on you the first time, but Angel always said I drove like someone who was trying to get the both of us killed.”

As Francis would find out, that statement was correct.

\---

Despite feeling like he was going to die the entire time, and at one point being sure they would lose a game of chicken to a truck, Francis arrived in London safe and sound, and learned that Crowley loved to talk about his car.

“Oh dear, please tell me we’ve arrived,” he said, when Crowley managed to park without shifting from fourth gear.

“I did warn you about my driving. But I hardly ever get into accidents. Well, there was that one time, but nothing came of it.”

There was a story there, he could tell.

“You hit your car before? I’m not surprised, with the way you drive.”

“I hit a girl. Well, she hit me, with her bicycle. It wasn’t my fault, really. I was talking to Angel, and she came out of nowhere. Didn’t even get hurt though, and we gave her a ride home. So no harm done.”

“Still, you should consider driving more carefully. You could kill someone at these speeds.”

“Oh, no, not me. I was always too much of a wimp when it came to killing,” he said, leaving the car.

Again, the sort of ominous thing that a future murder victim might hear, but it was said in such a way that he couldn’t fell threatened by7.  
He left the car to follow Crowley inside the building.

“Can you really park outside like this?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” he said, pressing for the lift.

“Well, you said it yourself, it’s a relic, extremely well cared for.” Crowley hadn’t talked about anything else on the way there.

“No one’s gonna steal it,” he said as they got on the lift, quickly pressing for the last floor.

“How could you even license it to drive around? I don’t know much about cars, but it should be over a century old.”

“It is. But it’s modified, doesn’t run on petrol. Has a faster engine too.”

“You must really love that car.”

“At one point, I thought it was all I had in the world. Then it was almost destroyed, and I thought I would never be able to fix it, and that I had lost everything I had. Then I lost Angel, now the Bentley really is everything I have, and I realize that a car doesn’t mean much at all.”

He got out of the lift, and Francis went after him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to touch a sensitive subject.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ve been like that since I lost him. A minefield of emotions, everything is a sensitive subject. Here we are,” he said, opening the door to his flat.

Francis followed him inside, and if he were a more superstitious man, he might have thought there really was a demonic energy there.

“You live here?”

“I know, it doesn’t look lived in. I used to spend a lot of time at Angel’s bookshop, but that’s where he was killed, so I can’t bring myself to go there anymore. I locked it up, kept it safe, it’s what he would have wanted, but I can’t go there.”

Minefield was an understatement. At least minefields had safe paths.

“I was going to say it looks fancy.”

Crowley shrugged. “I still cared about apparences when I first got it.”

“You don’t anymore?”

“What’s the point? I was trying to be someone I’m not, but it didn’t save me.”

Francis didn’t think anything about that flat scream ‘straight’, but he wasn’t about to say that, so he took out his bible and a cross. He might as well get started.

“Anything in particular you want me to do?”

“Just anything that will keep the devil away. If it’s still here afterwards I’ll know it’s all in my head.”

Francis didn’t dispute the point, instead, he began circling through the blessings he knew.

It was as if there was something there fighting back against him, a powerful energy that refused to submit. It was ridiculous to think that, of course. Not even the Church believed in demons walking around the world, not anymore. They had even banished the use of exorcisms a few decades ago, because of the number of mentally ill people killed by the practice.

Still, being in that flat, he could almost believe that demons were really walking the Earth, even if only because of the uneasiness he felt.

He made his way through the flat, and was surprised to find a bedroom seemingly out of old sitcoms, two twin beds separated by a nightstand.

“I know it’s ridiculous, sleeping like that when I live alone.”

Francis quickly recovered from his surprise. Crowley really was an old-fashioned man.

“I wouldn’t say ridiculous.”

“I thought it would make Angel more comfortable. In case I ever convinced him to stay the night, to show that I didn’t have anything improper in mind. The funny thing is, the one time he stayed, we slept on the same bed.” He quickly added, “Just slept, that is, we didn’t…”

“It’s alright, I’m not judging you. Although lust is a sin, making love certainly isn’t, regardless of the participants’ gender.”

Crowley shook his head. “We never even kissed. But we didn’t have to, if I could have him holding me like he did that night, I wouldn’t need anything else.”

“You shouldn’t feel like you can’t express your love.”

He didn’t know what to think of Crowley, so rebellious and so repressed.

“But I couldn’t, I shouldn’t have. That night we thought we were going to die, and then we thought we escaped. We abandoned everything to be together, and Angel was killed because of that. If I hadn’t convinced him to challenge his family, he would be safe.”

“He was killed because of his family’s prejudices, not because either of you did anything wrong.”

Since Crowley didn’t reply, he continued with his blessings. He hoped this would at least bring Crowley some solace. Francis couldn’t even begin to imagine how horrible his life must have been.

“Do you want a ride back?” Crowley offered after he was done.

“I think I’ll take the bus. I mean no offense, but I don’t think I can survive your driving twice in one evening.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am. And I hope you can sleep better tonight.”

Crowley took his hand, not like a handshake, but not like holding hands either, something closer to a knight about to kiss the hand of a damsel. “Thank you, for all the help you’ve given me.”

Francis didn’t know what to say to that. “I just hope it will be enough. Please come talk to me, whatever happens.”

\---

A week passed before he heard of Crowley again, but when he did, Crowley looked worse than ever, like he hadn’t slept since they last saw each other.

He was knocking on the church’s doors, desperate, and Francis thought he would rush inside when he opened the door, but instead, Crowley stared at him like he was about to cry, somehow managing to convey his despair. Francis could almost make out his eyes behind the shades, he could see the shadows as they moved frantically scanning the place.

“Crowley? What happened?” Francis asked when no explanation came.

Crowley hit the sides of his head with his fists. “He’s here, he’s here, I know he’s here.”

“Who’s here?” he asked, placing a hand on Crowley’s arm, trying to stop his movements without force. “Talk to me, dear boy, what’s happening?”

“He’s angry at what you did, he says he’ll keep hurting me until I give in, I don’t know how much longer I can fight. He knows everything about me, I can’t keep fighting.”

This seemed to be an episode of some sort. Francis tried to remember his training, the things that they studied because for a long time they were confused with possession. Schizophrenia, perhaps? The age could be right, he supposed, if the episodes started earlier and were only now getting worse without treatment, and the hallucinations fitted as well.

At any rate, Crowley could be a risk to himself in this state, so this time, Francis couldn’t let him leave. Even if that meant calling an ambulance to carry him away, and breaking Crowley’s trust once and for all, he couldn’t let him leave.

“Come inside,” he said, pulling Crowley gently by the arm, “tell me what happened and who hurt you.”

Crowley gave two steps inside the church, and then everything changed.

The shades burnt away to reveal snake-like eyes, patches of scales all around his skin. A pair of dark wings opened on his back. And when he laughed, Francis could see fangs and a forked tongue.

“Nice trick, forcing him into Holy Ground so I would be forced to reveal myself,” he said in a grotesque voice.

“Wh--” Before Francis could finish, he was pushed high against the wall, the air forced out of his lungs. Crowley hadn’t touched him, nothing was touching him, but he was still trapped a couple feet above the floor, and couldn’t get himself free.

“He is mine, I claim his soul for Hell!” As he yelled, flames encircled his feet.

This couldn’t be happening, couldn’t be real. Yet, everything before his eyes showed to Francis that this was a demon.

He tried to remember what little he knew of demons, but the Church had long since abandoned their existence. A relique of another era.

“ _...Nomen...ist…_ ” he tried to force the words out, struggling with his rusty Latin and lack of air, but the demon was quicker, forcing him against the opposing wall.

Names, names had power, with the name of the demon he could begin to cast it out, and he could order the demon to tell him his name in the first place, if only he could remember how. He could read Latin, but finding the right sentences to speak when in panic was a different level of fluency, and he drew a blank.

“ _Vade retro Satana!_ ” he yelled, the only thing he could think of before the demon attacked him again.

Crowley was pushed out of the church, falling on the ground outside. Francis ran to him, but he was unconscious.

Francis was a man of faith, but he was a scholar, he knew how many of the stories of possession could easily be explained away by science, but he also knew what his eyes saw.

Carefully, he stepped closer to Crowley, and opened one of his eyes. Just as he suspected, they weren’t human, but also weren’t lenses, and they didn’t seem to be surgically altered. He had heard of eye tattoos and even internal lenses, but the former wouldn’t work in the iris and the latter left clear marks that could be seen upon close inspection.

Gently opening Crowley’s mouth, he checked the fangs and the gums around them. No sign of alteration either, not even signs of scarring. Crowley complained of vomiting glass, but there were no cuts or injuries, and not a single scar.

There had to be a rational explanation for this. He studied cases that were long believed to be proof of possession, and now even the church made a point of demonstrating how there was a rational explanation for them. Diseases previously unknown, strange weather phenomena, forgeries, there was always an explanation.

The eyes. Even if they were natural, it could be coloboma or some other condition causing irregular pupils, even if they seemed so perfectly shaped, and the color was a little odd, but not impossible.

The fangs, maybe some type of hyperdontia? Or would that would cause extra teeth? He had a vague recollection of a disease causing abnormalities to both eyes, teeth and the face. The point was, it was possible. He couldn’t remember the specifics, but it existed.

The patches on the skin, perhaps cancer or allergies. The reports of demonic activity and changes in voice could be neurological or psychological in nature, as he suspected before, same with his response to Latin.

But the rest, the rest Francis couldn’t explain. The wings were real, they had to be real, and so was the fire, and Francis was kept in the air by some unseen force. He couldn’t find a way to explain that, not unless he had also lost his mind. And he was too old for any psychosis that would explain this, even dementia wouldn’t escalate so fast.

Whatever the case, Crowley needed help, and there was no place that Francis could take him, no one he could ask for help. Back in the day, when the Vatican still sanctioned exorcisms, he could he have called an investigation, then they could send a specialist. Nowadays, if someone was dumb enough to ask, they would send in church sactioned psychiatrists, for both of them.

Francis had no other choice, he had to help Crowley himself. The boy was skin and bones, and Francis was stronger than he looked, but he still struggled to carry him through the garden to the small living quarters adjacent to the church.

His room was consecrated, but it wasn’t the same as the church, so he hoped it would be safe. Demons had to reveal themselves when they stepped into a church, but it wasn’t with the demon he wanted to talk, he needed to know if Crowley was fine. Or at least, if Crowley was still there.

Francis didn’t have much, a bedroom with a small kitchen on a corner and a small desk on the opposite, and a bathroom. He had books, but most of those he kept at the church itself, it had a fine library built in, but pieces of the ceiling were falling and it smelt moldy, so no one bothered him there.

He placed Crowley on his bed, and went to fetch a glass of water. He sat by Crowley’s side, but stopped just as he was reaching to wake him.

What was he going to do? He either had a mentally ill young man half his age8 passed out on his bed, which was a scandal waiting to happen, or he had a legitimate case of possession and locked a demon in his room, which was an even bigger scandal. Not that he minded his reputation.

The problem was, he needed to decide which one was it. Or at least which one he believed in.

These two problems had vastly different solutions, and if he chose the wrong one, then Crowley’s life, and quite possibly his soul, would be in jeopardy.

Faith or rationality. He could only choose to follow one of them, and he didn’t know which one to believe.

But perhaps it wasn’t his choice after all, and Crowley believed he was possessed.

From the start he believed that Crowley was honest, but troubled. Now Francis had seen the impossible evidence of the occult just as Crowley had seen it.

If Francis assumed Crowley was sick and called him an ambulance, maybe Crowley’s life would be saved. But if he was possessed, then this would mean sacrificing his soul to a demon, and that was a fate much worse than death.

If on the other hand Francis attempted an exorcism and Crowley was simply mentally ill, at best he would get sicker, and at worse he could die.

Crowley’s life versus his soul, Francis knew which one was the worse to risk. But it wasn’t his choice, not really, it couldn’t be.

“Crowley,” he called, shaking his shoulder gently. “Crowley, Anthony.”

Crowley’s eyes moved under his eyelids, then slowly, he blinked back into conscience.

“Francis? Did I… did I pass out?” he asked, his voice weak and lost.

“What is the last thing you remember?”

If this was Crowley’s choice to make, then Francis wasn’t about to influence his decision.

Crowley rubbed his eyes, then pressed hard against them. “I came to ask you for help, then my head felt like it was being ripped in half. I don’t know what happened after that.”

Francis nodded, it would have been easier if Crowley remembered something, anything, but this was never going to be easy. Easy left through the door the moment he put down his book to talk to Crowley for the first time.

“Here, let me help you sit up,” he said, offering his hand and helping Crowley set himself on the bed frame. “Drink some water.”

“What happened?” Crowley asked, taking the glass. “Did I hit my head? It feels… it feels like there’s something scratching inside my brain. No, not scratching, slithering around like a snake, scraping me from the inside with its fangs.”

“Do you remember why you came to see me?”

“The demon, the demon was talking to me, threatening me. I knew he was real, and I hoped you could help me. I hoped you would believe me, help me in some way.”

“Are you sure about that? Are you sure this is the work of a demon?”

Crowley stared at him with a mix of despair and disbelief. “You don’t believe me. After everything I told you, you still just think I’m crazy.”

“That’s not what I’m saying, but I need you to understand that the church has renounced the existence of demons decades ago.”

“I know what I saw, I know what I heard, I know what I’m feeling. I’m not alone inside my head. I know it’s easier to think I’m just crazy, and I can’t prove to you I’m telling the truth, but this is a demon.”

“And I believe you, but I need you to understand that you’ll have to make a choice.”

“What are you talking about?”

How could he present this without influencing Crowley?

“We have two options, but the choice is yours, and I’ll support you no matter what you choose. The first one is presuming you’re sick, in which case I’ll take you to a psychiatrist, and I’ll help you every step of the way to your recovery. The second… is presuming you’re possessed, in which case you need an exorcism.”

Crowley frowned. “I don’t understand, I thought the church knew how to tell the difference. In the films, they always have tests.”

“That was years ago, there were trained exorcists who could help. But right now, if I called the Vatican, they would just send doctors, and treat you as if you’re sick. They wouldn’t believe, even if they saw proof.”

“You’re telling me to choose if demons are real or all in my head.”

“I’m asking you to choose which treatment do you want, because if we make the wrong choice, there’s a good chance that you’ll die. Mentally ill people have died because of exorcisms many times before, but if this is truly a demon, you won’t last enough to be treated, you’ll die.”

“And go to Hell.”

“It is a possibility, if we’re dealing with a demon.”

“What do you think is happening?”

Francis shook his head. “This isn’t my choice to make.”

“Maybe not, but I trust you. If you tell me this is all in my head, then I’ll do what you want, I’ll go to a doctor. But I need to know if there’s even a chance that I’m right. I don’t mind dying, it’s what I deserve, after all I did. I don’t even mind going to Hell, I just wanna know I’m making the right choice.”

Francis sighed, averting his eyes. After a long moment, he stood up and went to his desk, taking a small hand mirror, and coming back to hand it to Crowley.

Crowley took it with shaky hands, and dropped it when he saw his reflection. He touched his fangs with hesitant hands, then the patches of scales on his skin.

“What’s happening?”

“Do you believe that you are sick, or that this is the work of a demon?”

“If this is how I look like to you, there’s no way that’s all in my head. The demon is real.”

It was all Francis needed to hear. Baring some sort of _folie à deux_ , the fact that both of them were seeing the same thing meant it had to be real. Reality was nothing more than an agreed upon shared perception.

“When you came looking for my help, you stepped inside the church. That forced the demon to reveal itself. It spoke to me, claiming your soul.”

Crowley pressed his eyes and bit his lower lip, his breath making it clear that he was trying not to cry. “So that’s it, I’m going to Hell. I can’t say I don’t deserve it. Funny the demon would go through so much trouble though. Maybe it got impatient after all the times I contemplated offing myself.”

Francis took his hands. “Crowley, listen to me, I will do anything in my power to save you. Your soul is yours, and this demon doesn’t have a complete hold on it yet, otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to seek my help. The battle is not over just yet, and you don’t have to keep fighting all alone.”

“I always knew that I was damned, but a demon? How could this have happened to me?”

“I believe it was the death of your beloved. When the church still believed in demons, one of the reasons for possession identified was a lowering of resistances caused by trauma. When he was murdered, you were distraught and believed you were guilty, that could have open you to possession.”

Crowley nodded in understanding. “So it was my fault.”

“No, it means you are a victim. Crowley, you aren’t responsible for his death, and your love isn’t sinful, I told you that many times before.”

Crowley shook his head. “You don’t know, I lied to you. I…” his voice failed for a moment, “I desired him, I wanted him to know me. I… I touched myself to thoughts of him. You said lust was a sin, so what I felt was sinful. I tricked you, just as I tricked him, because that’s all I do, I’m a foul, repugnant creature. All I know how to do is lie and deceit.”

Francis smiled, gently. He wondered if this was the first time Crowley admitted what he felt, not even to another person, but aloud. And once again he wondered what kind of upbringing Crowley had, for him to use such an antiquated expression to talk about sex. Quite possibly a fundamentalist cult, which would explain why it was still in his head decades later.

The first time Crowley talked about being inside a church, he said he feared he would be killed. It was only then that Francis realized how literal he was probably being. He didn’t want to know how that last cult went, what they planned on doing to him before he escaped.

“What you felt was normal. There’s nothing wrong with desiring someone, that is not what lust is. Desiring to have sex with someone you love is just another expression of love, just as healthy as all the others. Lust demands a care for the physical without care for the spiritual, and love is spiritual, so a desire for someone you love isn’t lust, can never be lust.”

Crowley shook his head. “If it wasn’t for me, he would still be alive. He even told me, we couldn’t let our families know we were friends, let alone what I wanted from him. And if he knew, if he knew when I first felt this way, he would have ran away from me.”

“I know this is hard to accept, but he died because of his family’s prejudice, not because you loved him or because he loved you.”

“We were happy, if I had kept my distance, he would still be safe, but I was the one who wanted more. I’m the one who always wants more than I deserve, and I shouldn’t have gotten him involved.”

“You said he loved you too, would you deny him that love just so he would be safe?”

That seemed to stop Crowley’s spiral in its tracks. “What do you mean?”

“If I told you could have avoided this demon by not loving him at all, would you be happier?”

“Of course not, I would sooner stop breathing than stop loving him, but this isn’t about me.”

“Of course it is. And if you wouldn’t be happier without this love, what makes you think that he would be?”

“Because he would be alive. He would still have his books and his pastries, all the things that he loved. He would live,” Crowley said, not able to meet his eyes.

“But would he?” Francis pressed. “And what kind of life, denying who he held dearest in his heart. What kind of life is one in which one has to suppress their feelings under threat of death?”

Crowley’s eyes went wide as he stared at Francis. “You can’t think that he’s better off dead.”

“No, but I think he was better off having lived. If your situations were reversed, if you had been the one to be killed, would you regret having loved him?”

Crowley looked away. “You know I wouldn’t. And I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Crowley…”

“No, you said you were going to help me, so help. Get this thing out of me,” Crowley said, angrier than Francis had heard him outside of the demon’s little speech.

Apparently Francis had struck a nerve. Not that he blamed Crowley for his reaction, this wasn’t an easy topic, and years of repression wouldn’t disappear overnight, especially when he had the trauma of losing his great love.

Besides, the presence of the demon would only make it harder to convince Crowley that he wasn’t damned.

“I will help you, but I need you to understand this won’t be easy. I can’t help you cast out this demon if you want to keep it.”

“So you _do_ think this is my fault. I let this demon in and now I’m letting it stay. This is all on me.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. But if you feel guilty, if you feel that you deserve what’s happening to you, then nothing I do can help you.”

“I do deserve this.”

Francis sighed, he didn’t know what to do, but Crowley needed him to know, needed him to find a solution. He was all Crowley had.

“Crowley,” Francis said, gently guiding Crowley back to look at him. “No one deserves what is happening to you. And if you can’t believe me when I tell you that you did nothing wrong, then I’m sorry for having to ask this of you, but what do you think your Angel would want?”

“No, don’t you dare use him like this.”

“I’m sorry, but if you can’t realize for yourself that you don’t deserve this, then cast out this demon for him. Because he loved you, and that means he wouldn’t want you to lose the battle for your soul because you gave up trying.”

“You really think so?”

“I do, if you can’t do it for yourself, do it for him.”

Crowley closed his eyes, pressing them tight, and gave out a strangled sob. “I’ll do whatever it takes, I just need it to stop. I can’t take it anymore. I don’t care if I die, just make it stop.”

Francis pulled him in for a hug, circling his back comfortingly. “You are a brave man, Crowley. I promise I’ll find a way to save you.”

A sick laughter broke through the silence, and Francis was pushed against the wall, falling to the floor.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” the demonic voice said.

Crowley started seizing, and Francis knew enough not to touch him. Laying on a soft bed with nothing he could hit was the safest place to be in during a seizure.

He had no idea how to do what he had promised to do, but Crowley had no one else. Francis would have to find a way to help.

Once the seizure was over, he went to check on Crowley. He was unconscious, but other than that, and all the previous signs of demonic possession that still remained, he seemed fine.

Francis took his journal from the desk. It was a habit he had mostly abandoned, but since learning more details of Crowley’s case, he had picked it up again. Before, he wanted to have a record in case he needed to contact a psychiatrist, maybe even something to support involuntary commitment if Crowley went too far.. Now, it was much more important.

If he was about to do an unsanctioned exorcism, he needed all the documentation he could get.

\---

His library was of some help, and what he couldn’t get his hands on, he managed to request a digital copy out of the Vatican library. It wasn’t enough, the best texts were kept secure, despite the Vatican’s insistence that they held no more secrets, and he couldn’t access them. But what he had gave him some clues, and that would have to be enough.

He tied Crowley up while he was unconscious, fearing that the demon might do something again while Francis was out researching.

He also made sure that no one would come looking for him, although he could only hope that no one would come looking for Crowley. If they were found under these circumstances, then Francis would be arrested and Crowley wouldn’t get the proper help.

He wished he could have consulted with doctors and psychiatrists as they used to do when exorcisms were still sanctioned. At least then he could be sure that he was doing the right thing. But even asking in hypotheticals would raise too many questions, and he couldn’t risk the ritual being left incomplete.

He dressed in a surplice and a purple stole, feeling absolutely ridiculous. Just a few days before, he didn’t believe in demons, now he was preparing to do an exorcism based heavily on what he read on the internet. Mostly the Vatican website, but still. That seemed like the beginning of a bad horror film.

Francis made the sign of the cross on his forehead, then kneeled to do the same with Crowley. Crowley woke up hissing, fighting against his restraints.

“Finally decided to take some action, damned priest?” the demon said. By now it was easy to tell the difference, they sounded nothing alike.

Francis ignored him, it was to be expected. “What is your name, demon?”

“Fuck you,” he spat.

He took his bottle of Holy Water, sprinkling Crowley and himself. Crowley contorted, fighting his restraints harder, smoke coming out of his skin as blisters formed.

“Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy.”

“Is that the best you got? You know you’re supposed to have a choir for that,” he mocked. “As in, more than one person?”

“In the name of God, I command you to reveal your name.”

“How about you blow me, then I’ll think about answering you.”

Francis took a deep breath, collecting himself. He couldn’t let the demon get under his skin.

“Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy,” he said, sprinkling the Holy Water again.

Crowley hissed again, contorting in pain as new blisters formed. “Fucking repressed priest.”

“In the name of God our Lord, I command you to reveal your name.”

“I struck a nerve, didn’t I? Does the good priest enjoy being on his knees a little too much?”

“Answer me, demon.”

“I saw you looking at him. A heart broken and desperate young man, and you lusted after him, just as you’re doing now. Tell me, priest, do the rules tell you to tie him up to your bed or was that your own perverted idea?”

It was a shock, seeing someone that looked like Crowley talk like this, when Crowley himself was so embarrassed by his sexuality.

“It’s not true,” he said, and immediately regretted it. He shouldn’t answer to the demon, that was just giving him more ammunition.

“Oh, but it is. You thought about fucking him, and told yourself it was about fixing that repression. Make him forget all about his dead sweetheart with your cock up his arse.”

Francis took his cross and pressed it against Crowley’s cheek, forcing it down as he squirmed. “In the name of God, I command you to reveal your name you foul demon.”

He was done arguing. It wasn’t true, but of course it wasn’t. He wouldn’t deny that the thought crossed his head that perhaps a new relationship would help Crowley, but he wasn’t ready for that now, and Francis had never considered himself to be that person. Surely Crowley was attractive, but Francis was a man of God, and he didn’t regret his vows. His interest in Crowley was just helping him, and if he could, he would have Crowley be with his angel.

The demon was trying to put thoughts in his head, distract him from his mission, but he wouldn’t allow it. For Crowley’s sake, he couldn’t allow it.

Crowley hissed and squirmed, finally spitting out, “Crawly, I’m Crawly, first tempter, the serpent of Eden, and I claim this soul for Hell!”

Francis took out the cross, and tried not to let his stomach turn at the damage he saw. “I cast you out, Crawly,” he said, sprinkling the Holy Water.

Crowley, no, Crawly hissed, his breath heavy. “Won’t be that easy, he wants me here, he’s a damned soul,” he said, his voice weaker now.

“I won’t let you take him.”

“You can’t stop me,” he said, then passed out.

Francis sat on the floor, with his face between his hands. What was he doing? How could he even think he was qualified enough to do this?

\---

Francis splashed some water on his face, trying to stay awake. How long had them been at this? Two or three days at least, and he had hardly been able to sleep.

This needed to end, soon, or Crowley’s body wouldn’t resist. Francis had managed to give him some water, but he refused to eat, and both him and the demon seemed to be getting weaker.

They were done with the litany of saints, but Francis was afraid to keep using the Holy Water. Crowley’s skin was covered in ugly blisters, and at some places his muscles were exposed. He thought he could even see some bone around the torso, but was afraid to check. Still, it seemed to work on the demon better than the holy words.

“Angel?” Crowley called softly, his voice risp from his previous yelling. Their previous session had been particularly strenuous, so much so that for a moment Francis thought he had stopped breathing, but was merely unconscious.

Francis went back to his room, finding Crowley looking delirious. He went to the bed, taking Crowley’s hand.

“Crowley?”

Crowley’s face lit up, but his eyes were out of focus, wandering slowly around the room as if he couldn’t find the source of the voice. One of his eyes, on the side the cross had nearly burnt a hole to his cheek, was still milky from when Holy Water last spilled on it, but more like cataract than blindness. “Angel, what’s happening?”

Francis pressed his eyes with his free hand, trying not to cry. Crowley was in unimaginable pain, and Francis didn’t know if he was strong enough to survive, or what state his body would be in if he did. And now he thought he was his dead lover, and Francis couldn’t find it in him to tell him the truth.

“You’re sick, but you’re going to get better. I need you to keep fighting, can you do that for me?” Francis said, sick to his stomach for what he was doing. The way he used Angel before was bad enough, now this.

“It hurts. Angel, it hurts so much.”

He squeezed Crowley’s hand. “I know, but I need you to keep fighting. I know you’re strong enough to do this.”

“Did they get to me? You have to get out of here, you can’t let them get to you. They’ll kill you if they get to you.”

Even now he cared more about this man than he did about himself. In what kind of world such beautiful and pure love could be persecuted on false claims of sin and damnation?

“I’m not leaving you, but it’s ok, I promise you I’m safe. I just need you to keep fighting for me, can you do this?”

Crowley nodded. “I’ll try, but I’m so tired, it hurts so much.”

Francis kissed him on the forehead. “I know, I know. But I’m with you, I’m going to stay with you, so just keep fighting.”

“Angel, I need to tell you. If this is it, if this is the end, I need to tell you.”

“It’s not the end, you can still fight. Please fight for me.”

“I can feel, I can feel my soul. Nearly melting. If I’ll be gone I need you to know. I need you to know before I am destroyed.”

“It’s ok. I know, I already know.”

“I love you, Angel. I’ve loved you since you’ve told me that you gave away that stupid sword.”

He shouldn’t have lied, he should have told Crowley that he wasn’t who he thought he was. But now it was too late. Crowley finally had confessed his feelings, and this might give him the strength he needed to fight the demon.

“I love you too, so I need you to keep fighting. Keep fighting for me, my love.”

He was a horrible person. How could he do this to Crowley? He knew it was wrong, every step of the way he knew, but he still went through with it.

“I will, Angel. I promise,” he said, then fell back asleep.

“Fuck,” Francis whispered, hitting his head against the mattress.

Performing the exorcism without authorization was bad, but he had no one choice, because giving up on Crowley wasn’t an alternative. But lying to him like this was inexcusable. He did it to spare Crowley’s feelings, but that didn’t make what he did any better.

He only had the time to turn his head to the floor before throwing up. Perhaps the demon was right about what he wanted, perhaps he was no better than the demon accused him of being.

\---

“You’re gonna kill him before you get rid of me,” Crawly’s voice came, too weak to be menacing, just as Francis had finished blessing a new batch of Holy Water.

He took a deep breath before going back to the room, the vial of Holy Water still in his hand. “I won’t let you take him.”

“If he dies with me up his arse, he’s still my bitch. And I’ll have an eternity in Hell to savor him.”

“He doesn’t belong to you, and I won’t let you take him.”

“Of course he does, he’s a sinner. He even confessed. Oh, the filth he pleasured himself to, only to be consumed with guilt after.”

“Sex isn’t filth and love is not a sin, I won’t let you trick him with this.”

“Do you want to know what he did? How he sucked his fingers until he choke, picturing a big fat cock. How he spread his legs like a bitch in heat and shoved as many fingers as he could up his arse, and it was never enough to fill the needy little slut. Can you picture that? Does that make you hard?”

He couldn’t help but imagine it, or feel the jolt of electricity that came with it. But he wouldn’t let the demon in his head, this was his fight too. He was being tempted too, and needed to resist.

“I don’t care what he did, he’s not a sinner, and you can’t have him.”

“And then he cried himself to sleep like a little cunt, or he drank until he passed out. Such delicious hate, he was begging me to take his soul, begging for a proper fuck, begging to be punished for all filthy slutty thoughts and actions. I’m giving him what he wants, what he deserves.”

Francis took a deep breath. The demon was trying to rattle him, but he couldn’t allow that.

“It’s not his fault. He was lied to, he was made to believe love is wrong. But he did nothing wrong, all he did was love, as all creatures have a right to.”

“Is that so, priest? So now the Vatican is the protector of cocksluts? I know a few succubi who would love to hear that the Vatican is endorsing lust.”

“It’s not lust. Crowley is in love, and love is not a sin. Desiring his beloved is only natural, and he can’t be punished for it.”

“Are you sure about that? Because he’s convinced of the contrary. And he’s going to let me take him. He’s going to accept all the punishment I have to give him and more, because he wants to be punished. He knows what he did is wrong and he wants to be punished for it.”

“I won’t let you trick him. He did nothing wrong and he doesn’t deserve any punishment.”

“Of course he does, and he knows he does. That’s why I’m here. I’m here because he allows me. If he didn’t want to be punished, he could stop all of this, but he won’t, because he knows it’s what he deserves.”

“He deserves love and happiness, he deserves to be with his angel.”

“He deserves punishment! You say love, but all he had was desire, and desire for the wrong sort. How could it be anything but a sin? Your church killed for less. Your church brought Hell to Earth for less.”

“And the church was wrong then as people who follow those words are wrong now. When two grown people love each other, it can’t be wrong. That they were two men changes nothing. He loves, and he’s closer to God because of it. Because every love is divine.”

The demon laughed. “Keep telling yourself that, pansy priest. What you believe doesn’t matter, as long as he believes me, he’s mine.”

Francis spilled the vial on Crowley’s chest, his stomach turning at the smell of melted flesh. He could see a couple ribs where the skin had given out completely.

The demon fought against the restraints, but passed out. It was too much, he shouldn’t have done it, but he couldn’t keep listening to that demon.

With each passing moment, Francis became more afraid that Crowley wouldn’t survive this, but stopping meant forgoing the battle for his soul. And even if it wasn’t possible to preserve Crowley’s life, perhaps it was still possible to save his soul. It was far from the ideal way to save Crowley, but he was afraid there would be no other way.

Francis went to get his journal. Both of them might die from this, so the least he could do was leave behind some explanation. He never had anyone, no family, no friends, no one to miss him but his congregation. And Crowley lost the only person who seemed to care about him. All they would leave behind would be documentation. Not as good as proof, but perhaps enough so that the Vatican would investigate, perhaps enough to make them rethink the existence of demons.

Soon, this would all be over, one way or another.

\---

Francis couldn’t stand to remain awake a second longer, but he couldn’t stand the thought of leaving Crowley alone, knowing that the demon might manifest again.

Perhaps he should have been more careful in following the exorcism rites. Perhaps he shouldn’t have let the demon goat him into an argument. If Crowley’s soul was lost because of him, an eternity in Hell would be too kind a punishment.

He couldn’t help but wonder what would have happened if he had intervened from the start, when Crowley first spoke of malignant influences. Perhaps then the demon wouldn’t have been so strong, and Francis would have been able to defeat the demon without hurting Crowley.

Crowley’s wounds stank of brimstone and decay, a foul, rotten smell that shouldn’t come from a living thing. And this was his fault. He had failed Crowley.

“It’s alright,” Crowley’s voice called, and Francis realized he must have drifted asleep, sitting on the floor by the bed.

“Crowley?” he called, despite knowing that this sweet, hurt voice could only belong to him.

“Thank you for trying, but I can’t do this anymore. He’s right, God is punishing me for loving wrong, and I can’t escape it,” he said, although the hole that had now torn open on his cheek made him hard to understand.

“This isn’t God’s work, Crowley. God wouldn’t punish you for loving. So you have to keep fighting.”

“I can’t. Can you believe that I’m glad that I’ll never see Angel again? If I had gotten my way, he would be going to Hell with me, but I’m so glad I’ll never see him there. I couldn’t save him, but at least I have this.”

“He won’t have gone to Hell for loving you, and there’s still hope of saving your soul. I can’t give you the life you should have had, but you can meet him in Heaven, and all the pain of this world will be gone then.”

Crowley shook his head, or tried to. “I’m beyond redemption, but he isn’t. He knew it was wrong too. That’s why he wouldn’t run away with me. He knew it was wrong, and I kept tempting him.”

Francis took his hands, but Crowley didn’t seem to notice, as if he was barely connected to his own body. “Your love isn’t wrong, it’s perfect and worth fighting for. Falling in love is grace, not temptation.”

“I would give up anything to be with him. We could be just two balls of energy flying through space for all I care. All I needed was him.”

“See? What can be more beautiful than that?”

“I hope he’s happy, even if it’s not what he wanted, even though they took his life, I hope he’s happy. I couldn’t be, not without him.”

“Crowley, please don’t give up, it’s not too late.”

He tried shaking Crowley, but no response came. His eyes were still open, but unmoving, and it was impossible to tell if he was still breathing, his chest mangled, with muscles and bones exposed.

Had he just… Was Crowley dead?

Francis took his journal to write down Crowley’s final words, trying to fight back the tears that were coming. He failed. No one needed him as much as Crowley needed him, and he failed.

He was so distracted writing that he didn’t notice the body rising from the bed, not until he heard the wings spreading. He turned quickly to find the demon standing, his body hurt almost beyond recognition, and his wings faded, but still far from defeated.

He tried moving towards his cross, but the demon pushed him against the wall with his body, then spoke with his fangs nearly touching Francis’ skin.

“You really thought you would win, didn’t you, priest?”

“Let me go!”

“Why? What are you going to do? You were wrong, your precious God didn’t care about him, and he was damned.”

“No! That’s not true! Love isn’t a sin!”

“See the evidence before you, priest. He loved the wrong sort, so God punished him, and I’m the executioner.”

“No! Love isn’t a sin! There’s no such thing as loving the wrong sort!”

“Of course there is, and he died alone and unloved. Abandoned and punished by God. And now is your turn to suffer.”

“He wasn’t alone! I was with him. And he wasn’t unloved. I loved him! Loving isn’t wrong and God wouldn’t punish someone for loving!”

As he yelled the last word, lighting struck through the roof, burning a hole through the demon’s wing and striking Francis in the center of the chest.

And with that, Francis was dead.

\---

Aziraphale closed the book, having finished it for perhaps the one hundredth time. The journal ended with the words ‘I couldn’t save h’, and the pages stained in blood offered more questions than answers. Still, this was undeniably his handwriting, and the only person who could provide him with answers had been asleep for a week, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure he would wake up.

When he woke up next to an injured Crowley inside what seemed like the adjacent living quarters to a church, his first thought was to bring him to safety. Not knowing where they were, safety could only come in the form of a hotel room, where they could hide while he healed Crowley’s wounds.

His injuries were responding somewhat to Aziraphale’s miracles, but only by a small margin. He could still feel Crowley’s essence, which meant he hadn’t been destroyed or discorporated, but other than that all signs were negative.

Aziraphale had felt behind times for over a century now, but on their way there, he couldn’t help but notice everything seemed stranger than he expected. Between that, the journal and Crowley’s injuries, he didn’t know what to think.

The only thing he knew was that Crowley couldn’t have been attacked with Holy Water and survived, so the journal had to be wrong. Still, some of the things it said…

Aziraphale was plucked from his wanderings by a soft grunt, and ran to the bed.

“Crowley? Can you hear me?”

Crowley opened just one eye. Aziraphale was still working on the other, trying to restore his sight, but it was hard to decide what he should concentrate on, when every part of his body was nearly destroyed.

“What’s your name?” he whispered, and it would have been too low for human ears.

Aziraphale frowned. “Crowley, don’t you recognize me? It’s Aziraphale.”

Crowley tried to smile, but it turned into a wince as he pulled on the exposed muscle, the hole on his cheek significant enough that Aziraphale could see several teeth and a piece of jaw.

“I didn’t know if… if it would work. Couldn’t risk… saying… name. Made you… forget…” Crowley struggled to get the words out, and Aziraphale could see the strain on his chest, could see his lung filling against the ribs on the exposed side.

“You can explain everything to me later. For now, try to rest. I’m doing my best to heal you, but I don’t know what could have done this to you.”

“Holy Water.”

As the journal said, but it couldn’t be true. “Holy Water would have destroyed you completely.”

“Blessed… man… lost… faith… weak…” Crowley said, each word seeming to take everything out of him.

Holy Water blessed by a man who lost his faith? It shouldn’t produce Holy Water at all, but if somehow it did, if perhaps it was done by a holy man who wasn’t entirely lost, then it would be nowhere near Holy Water made by an angel.

“Rest now, Crowley. I’ll take care of you, I promise.”

Only after he said that he realized how much he sounded like the priest from the journal, promising something he wasn’t sure he could deliver.

\---

When Crowley woke up again, he could open both eyes, and most of his bones were covered. There was still a hole in one of his wings, and he didn’t seem to be able to put them away, but overall he seemed better.

Aziraphale never felt so much like sleeping.

“Angel,” he called, “is that really you?”

Aziraphale rushed to his side, all thoughts of exhaustion pushed away. “Crowley, it’s so good to hear your voice. You sound better.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, but this was an improvement. It showed Aziraphale’s miracles were doing something.

“You have your powers back,” Crowley said with a smirk, moving only the side of his face that wasn’t hurt.

“Yes, I do, although I don’t remember having lost them. What happened? Last thing I remember you were supposed to come pick me up for dinner.”

Crowley pressed his eyes. “If I had gotten there earlier, maybe I could have saved you. They got to you, angel. Gabriel and the others. They found a way to punish you.”

“Does this have anything to do with the priest who wrote this journal?” Aziraphale asked, picking it up from the nightstand. “He has my handwriting.”

Crowley stared at it in complete awe. “I didn’t know about the journal. Clever trick. It’s yours, Aziraphale. They made you human, that was your punishment. Completely human, with no memory of who you were before. Believe me, I tried to make you remember in every way I could.”

“What do you mean?”

None of this made sense, he never heard of a punishment such as this.

“The first time I found you I called your name, and you died in my arms. Heart attack, every time a heart attack. But I found you again, and I tried to tell you who you were, but you died again. It took me years to find you each time, I couldn’t sense you, so I had to look, I had to trust I would recognize you. I tried everything to make you remember.”

“But this story about a possession…”

“It was the witch’s idea. Not the one you know. Her granddaughter? Or great-granddaughter, maybe. I lost track of time. They helped me, all their lives they helped me. Every few years I would come back with more information, and they would try to help me find a new idea of how to get you back.” Crowley paused, taking a few breaths. “The witch found something about a counter-curse made out of belief. Heaven can’t punish someone who doesn’t believe they deserve to be punished. If I could convince you that you did nothing wrong, that God wouldn’t punish you for our… alliance, then what the angels did wouldn’t stick. They can’t curse, they can only punish.”

Belief… Aziraphale thought back to the journal. All the times Crowley, human Crowley, or pretending to be human Crowley, said to the priest that he was wrong for loving… he was playing devil’s advocate. He wanted the priest, Aziraphale, to defend the opposite point, he wanted to convince him.

“You mean love. I had to believe I shouldn’t be punished for loving you.”

Crowley turned his head to the opposite side, and Aziraphale couldn’t read his expression, just seeing the injured side.

“I didn’t know that for certain. I thought… I hoped.”

“You pretended to be human.”

“It was the only way I could talk to you. You didn’t believe in anything supernatural, you lost your faith, Aziraphale. But this way I could make you think about what happened.”

“You let me exorcize you! I could have destroyed you!”

“It was the only way. The only way I could make you believe. I’m sorry I attacked you, I needed you to believe I was an evil demon.”

“Crowley, you were nearly destroyed by the Holy Water. Weak or not, if it had gotten any closer to your core, you would have died.”

“Worth the risk. I couldn’t let you stay this way. But I almost ruined everything. It hurt so much, a couple times I couldn’t remember where I was, couldn’t remember what happened. I thought you were still you, if I had called your name, if I had said something wrong, then you would have died.”

Aziraphale remembered that part of the journal. Crowley talking to the priest as if he were his angel, telling him that he loved him.

“He, uh, I wrote that you felt your soul was nearly melting. Crowley, how close were you to being destroyed?”

Crowley shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t abandon you.”

Aziraphale took one of his hands, circling the skin with his thumb. “And what would be done of me, if you died trying to save me?”

Crowley finally looked at him again. “I don’t… wait, did you say that you love me?”

Aziraphale frowned, because that had to have been a good ten minutes before, so Crowley took his sweet time in processing the information.

“Well, yes. Of course I love you, I thought it was obvious.”

“No, I mean… wait, you do?”

“Crowley, what are you talking about?”

“Back during the exorcism. When I thought you were… yourself. I felt like I was about to die, and then you said, you said you loved me. You asked me to keep fighting.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. He couldn’t remember that, of course, but the journal spoke of it. In fact, the priest very clearly wrote about lying about it. “There was something about this in the journal. I believe I was trying to comfort you.”

“Just before… just before you came back, when I attacked you, tried to convince you that I, the other me, was dead. This part couldn’t have been in the journal. You said I wasn’t alone, you said you loved me.”

Aziraphale couldn’t remember it, and as Crowley said, it wasn’t in the journal. The journal stopped when the priest thought Crowley died, but more had to have happened for Aziraphale to return.

‘What happened? After you pretended to die as a human.”

Crowley swallowed hard, but didn’t turn away this time. “I told you that God punished him for loving the wrong sort, so he was damned. You kept arguing with me, until you said God wouldn’t punish someone for loving. That’s the last thing I remember before getting my wing fried. I must have passed out.”

“Was it true? All those things you told me about how you felt?”

“That I love you? Of course it is, why would I have done something like this otherwise?”

“That you blame yourself for what happened to me.”

“Oh, that,” Crowley sighed. “It’s true, isn’t it? If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t have been punished.”

“They didn’t care that you love me, all it mattered to them was that I love you. And if it weren’t for that, they would find another reason to punish me.”

“That’s not…”

Aziraphale leaned down and kissed Crowley softly, barely touching his lips. He could have argued with Crowley, but apparently the priest had tried it already and it didn’t work. Crowley froze when he touched him, but then sighed and opened his lips slightly.

The angle was awkward, and Aziraphale had to be careful not to let any of his weight on Crowley, but it couldn’t have been more perfect. Until Crowley let out a moan that definitively sounded like pain.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, moving back.

Crowley winced, and scales covered the hole on his check, as well as the injuries on his chest. A defense mechanism that Aziraphale had only seen a couple times before.

“No, it’s ok. It just hurts a little, I can take it.”

Aziraphale sighed. “A kiss isn’t something you should have to endure, my love. I got ahead of myself, but you are still injured.”

“I’m fine,” Crowley lied.

“Just a few days ago I could see one of your lungs, you’re not fine.”

“But I want…” he shook his head. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…”

Aziraphale gently took Crowley’s face by the uninjured side. “I am going to give up _everything_ that you want, once you can stand up from this bed on your own.”

Crowley tried turning his face away, but he couldn’t, despite Aziraphale’s gentle touch, so he simply looked away. “Did the journal have the things I said to provoke you?”

Aziraphale didn’t have to ask to know exactly what he was talking about. “It did say some things.”

Crowley pressed his eyes tight. “I was hoping you wouldn’t know about that.”

“Because you meant them?”

“I don’t need that, I don’t need any of that. I’m just glad to have you back.”

He wondered how much of what Crowley told the priest had been an act, and how much, especially the guilt and the shame were truly his.

“Crowley, look at me,” he pleaded, and Crowley complied, even though it seemed to hurt him. “It’s alright. Everything you felt is alright. And I would show you exactly how alright if I weren’t so afraid of hurting you.”

A bit too forward, but Aziraphale was afraid of the effect of decades of guilt on Crowley’s mind. If half of what was written in the journal was true and not just an act on Crowley’s part, then Crowley was consumed by guilt and shame over their love.

Still, it appeared to have some of the desired effect, because Crowley didn’t protest. “I, uh, I’m a lot better, actually.”

Aziraphale chuckled, and gave Crowley a quick peck to the top of the head. “Don’t forget who has been healing you, love. The effect on your corporation is a reflection of the state of your core, and I know it’s taking everything you have to keep this corporation.”

In a way, the physical injuries were a good thing, since they offered a guide to deeper injuries. If Crowley was discorporated now, not only it would be harder to heal him, but obtaining a new corporation would be close to impossible.

Crowley sighed, closing his eyes, but this time not seemingly out of shame. “I’m fine, I just need a little sleep,” he said, sounding absolutely exhausted.

Crowley was probably trying to hide his exhaustion from him before, but now it was clearly too much.

“Sleep, my love, you need to rest.”

“I’m afraid they’ll get to you again. I can’t lose you again.”

A lovely gesture, although Crowley wouldn’t be of any help now. Aziraphale doubted he could sit up in bed, let alone actually do anything to defend either of them.

“We’re safe here, I placed wards on the walls. Sleep now, I promise I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Crowley didn’t answer, but his breath deepened. Aziraphale climbed in bed with him, curling below his waist, mindful of the stretched wing Crowley still couldn’t retract. If last time was any indication, it would be weeks before Crowley woke again, but at least this meant that Crowley was focusing his energy on recovering.

At any rate, Aziraphale was in no hurry to leave that place. Even though Crowley couldn’t remember how long had passed, it was a safe assumption that every human he knew was gone. Would Crowley have kept his bookshop for this long or was he too focused on finding Aziraphale9? Nothing waited for him.

The weight of what happened hadn’t really sunk in. Decades lost, maybe a century, and above all the certitude that his lot would do anything to punish him. As far as they knew, they couldn’t destroy him. Aziraphale had assumed they would Fall him, but perhaps they couldn’t, because he never lost his faith, not completely.

Aziraphale didn’t know what would happen to them now, but one thing was certain, he wouldn’t allow Crowley to be hurt like this again. Whatever happened next, at least they would be together.

\---

1If one were to subscribe to the theory that they were never meant to eat the apple. This theory would be incorrect, but then again, such was the nature of reality that this had little meaning. At any rate, humans _did_ think quite a lot.[return to text]

2He was never sure how many, his mind tended to drift when he tried thinking about that. His mind had a tendency to drift when he thought about a lot of things.[return to text]

3It wasn’t that he disliked people, he just preferred to spend time with a good book. And without people.[return to text]

4He felt that inspiring people to live a good life and treat others well was far more important than going to church or even believing in God. Actions spoke louder than belief any day of the week. Even Sundays.[return to text]

5He never understood why people insisted it had to be one or the other. You can’t pray away mental illness, but having one shouldn’t exclude you from faith.[return to text]

6He remembered hearing about that somewhere, although not where. It was an elegant argument for atheism, and one he had to learn to counter.[return to text]

7He believed honestly that Crowley wasn’t capable of killing someone.[return to text]

8An attempt at assumption. Crowley had one of those faces that meant he could be anywhere between thirty and fifty.[return to text]

9The priest’s writing hadn’t been word for word, so he didn’t know that.[return to text]

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Crowley pretends to be a possessed human to manipulate Aziraphale in order to save him, Aziraphale is being punished and believes himself to be human, leading to doubts about what he believes to be reality. Crowley's cover story is their own relationship, but replacing the angel/demon stigma with homophobia and religious guilt, and Aziraphale believes he's suffering from internalized homophobia and mental health issues, possibly self-harm and hallucinations. There are also references to homophobic violence and murder, although it's an interpretation, not what actually happened. While pretending to be possessed, Crowley talks derogatorily about himself and Aziraphale, and uses sexualized language to refer to his own possession. During the exorcism, Crowley is severely hurt by Holy Water, which is described in some detail. Both Crowley and Aziraphale seem to die.[*]


End file.
